


breaking news

by itwasit



Category: The Newsroom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:28:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itwasit/pseuds/itwasit
Summary: “She's like a sophomore poli-sci major at Sarah Lawrence.”“Exactly like that.”“Yeah.”“I guess the only real differences are her two Peabodys and the scar on her stomach from the knife wound she got covering a Shiite protest in Islamabad.”
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	1. Breaking News

— **Late 2009** —

* * *

Will?” Don Keefer’s voice says in his ear, “We have breaking news. Forget F-Block, we'll fill you in and go after commercial. Tap your pen if you copy.” Will taps his pen against the anchor desk without a single stumble through the story he’s currently on about. He could read off meaningless facts about the latest iPhone in his sleep if he had to.

“And with that, we go to commercial. _News_ _Night_ will be right back, after this.”

Don shoves through the door the second the commercial pack starts rolling. “Start writing this down,” he commands. Will turns to a blank piece of his notes and glances back at his EP.

“We’ve just received and confirmed reports that journalists have been attacked in Pakistan. You know multiple networks have been covering the Shiite protests in Islamabad and Fallujah, and tonight it looks like they got a little too close…” He pauses, runs a hand over his face. “It's almost seven A.M. local time. We have two confirmed injuries to journalists—conditions unknown. There’s also six civilians who were trampled. We haven’t been able to get any names.”

“Has anyone else gone to air with this?”

“Not that we know of. Can you vamp on the protests until we find out more?” Will nods, but Don can tell he’s not really listening. “Thirty seconds back. I’ll be in your ear the whole time. Anything I know, you know.”

* * *

“Welcome back. We bring you breaking news out of the Middle East tonight, where we’ve just received word that two unnamed journalists and six civilians were injured while covering recent Shiite protests. The six civilians have been treated for minor trampling injuries. As for the journalists, ACN is currently working to find out their conditions and identities.

“What we do know is that these journalists, and many others in the Middle East, have been covering the series of protests and riots that have recently erupted in the region.”

“One stab wound—flown to Bagram AFB, Afghanistan in serious condition. The other was trampled—broken wrist, minor injuries,” Don’s voice interrupts.

Will relays the information as soon as he can break free of his own train of thought. “We have just confirmed that one involved journalist was trampled in the chaos and has been treated for a broken wrist and other minor injuries. The other suffered a stab wound and is being flown to Bagram Air Force Base in Afghanistan. Our thoughts are with them and their families...

_“News_ _Night_ will be back after this with an update on the violence in Islamabad.”

“We’re clear.”

“Don?” Will questions through his mic. “Who are they?”

“Gary Johnson from NBC was trampled,we just got their statement. As for the other, we only have speculation on a name and network. The second we get news from sources—from the networks themselves, or Islamabad, or anybody—we’ll run with it. What we do have is footage from the protests. Footage of the attack itself.”

“They can send footage of tonight's protests—Hell, they can send us _tape_ _of_ _the_ _person_ _who_ _was_ _stabbed_ —but no one can tell us a _name_?! No one seriously recognizes her in the video?!”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“These are our own people over there, Don.”

“I know.” Don nods, resigned, though Will can’t see.

“We’re good to run the tapes?”

“We haven’t seen them, but I’m sure.”

“We're doing it.” There's a long pause before Will actually brings himself to ask it: “Who are they speculating?”

Don’s heard half a dozen names from other networks speculation and his own control room, most are names either he or Will know. “You won't like it if I tell you,” he says, hoping to shut Will up before he asks a question he can't avoid.

“Thirty seconds.” Herb in the control room ends Will’s line of questioning.

* * *

“Welcome back to _News_ _Night_. We can now confirm that the NBC’s Gary Johnson was the man treated for a broken wrist and other minor injuries after being trampled in Islamabad, Pakistan tonight. Johnson and his cameraman are on a plane back to the United States as we speak, according to our source at NBC.

“We have not yet received final confirmation on any information concerning the identity of the second journalist who was stabbed while covering Shiite protests in the region; nor have we heard of any arrests being made in connection with that incident.”

Will takes a pause long enough to force Don to pull him back. “Go to the footage. I don’t know where your head is, Will.”

“As we await further news on the conditions and identities of the two journalists, we go to footage received from the protests earlier tonight. Please be warned, this footage may be graphic.”

“Roll tape.”

Will turns to the monitor behind him to watch. The footage of the protests themselves is rather uneventful as far as protests go.

“And here is the tape of the knife attack on the unnamed American journalist. Again, viewer discretion is advised.”

The second the tape starts, Will’s heart stops. Even years later there's no question in his mind that the woman on the film is who he thinks it is. Even now he could pick her out in a crowd, her features are so imprinted into his memory.

“Will, we’ve got a call from London patched into the control room right now. A man named Patrick McHale is claiming the woman in the clip is his daughter, MacKenzie. He wants to speak to you.” There is painfully long pause before Will manages to get his head straight again.

“With that, ACN can now confirm the identity of the second injured journalist, the woman in that clip, as CNN’s Mac— MacKenzie McHale. We have not yet received any update on her condition from Bagram Air Force Base. Our thoughts go out to her family and friends…” Will takes a deep, calming breath. “Our breaking coverage will continue after this, bringing you updates on the situation in Afghanistan.”

“Pakistan!” Don shouts.

“Excuse me, the situation in _Pakistan_. _News Night_ will be right back.”

* * *

“No, no, _no_.” Don begins to panic. “He did _not_ just report that. _We_ did not just report that. We had no real _source_ …”

Will is out of the chair before Don can say another word to him. “I’ll take the call in my office,” he says before tearing off his mic pack.

“Who the hell is this woman?” Don wonders to a control room of equally confused faces.

“She was Will’s EP before you. A few years ago.” Charlie Skinner’s voice, terrifyingly calm despite what just happened, echoes through the silent room. Don slowly turns around. “They haven't seen each other in years. Will knows Patrick McHale, and Will knows MacKenzie. Two confirmed sources: Patrick and Will.”

“Charlie…”

“You had no way of knowing. Produce the news, Don, put Elliot in the chair. I’ll handle Will if I have to.”

* * *

“Mister McHale,” Will says in a shaking voice. His blinds have been drawn shut, the office dark save for ACN on the TV. He fumbles through his top desk drawer for a moment before his hand closes over his wallet.

“William. It's good to hear your voice.”

“Sir, is she going to be okay?” He keeps his phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder as he thumbs through the bills first, then the cards. He finally finds it tucked behind his American Express: an old, worn picture, but still undoubtedly MacKenzie.

“...She’s in recovery now. Her cameraman is with her. He says the doctors say MacKenzie is stable… And that she should wake up soon.” Patrick uncharacteristically stumbles over his words.

“She’s going to hate me… Even more than she does.”

“She has _never_ hated you, William.”

“I put her on air. She never wanted to _be_ the news and I knew that.”

“She’ll forgive you again.”

“Please tell Mac I’m sorry. Tell her that I’m sorry for everything and I think she should come home.”

“I’ve tried convincing her of that a million times since she left. She tells us she’ll be “careful.” We’ve tried to tell her we spend the nights sitting awake until morning, watching the news, waiting for it to be a story from wherever she is and waiting for it to be bad.”

“Me too.”

“You should call, William. She listens to you. I’ll even give you the number for her room if you want it. Her cell number never changed.”

“I'll try,” Will sighs. “You have my number? You’ll call back if anything changes?”

“I can call you at home and at ACN. You’ll be the first to know after I know it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course.”

Will is left sitting silent in the dark, holding Mac’s worn picture in his trembling hands. 

* * *


	2. Post-Islamabad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacKenzie McHale makes her way to New York City by way of Chicago

Will’s first act in his post-Islamabad life is to unblock Mac’s cell phone number. Then he changes her contact name to ‘MacKenzie McHale.’ It looks too formal. Instead he changes it to just ‘MacKenzie.’ That doesn't look right either. He changes it back. 

There are many times in the few months that follow that he spends late nights staring at that contact name, wondering if she’d pick up. Despite what he’d said to her father, he never calls. She doesn't either.

* * *

His second act is to sit down and painfully absorb every last word of every voicemail and email she’s sent over the last three years. Later, he will insist that he could never bring himself to listen to what she had to say. It will not be the first time he lies about voicemail messages. Most importantly, he will never tell her that afterwards he sat for hours trying to compose his own thoughts:

**2:02 A.M.**

~~Dear MacKenzie,~~

**2:03 A.M.**

~~MacKenzie McHale,~~

**2:06 A.M.**

~~Mac,~~

~~I need to know you're okay. Please come home.~~

**2:11 A.M.**

~~Mac,~~

~~I’m not just saying this because of what happened, but I think I should tell you. I really have to tell you. I have never stopped loving you~~. 

**2:26 A.M.**

~~Mac,~~

~~I don't expect you to forgive me either.~~

* * *

His third act is to agree to more appearances. Anything to keep his mind off of her. Charlie schedules him for a panel in Chicago intended for journalism students; but by the time the panel actually comes around, Will’s pretty sure Charlie has been hiding things. 

Five months after the infamous Islamabad broadcast which it seems everyone at Atlantis World Media has not-so-affectionately called “the last time Will McAvoy reported news,” Will is trying very hard to keep this head on straight in front of a crowd of people at a college he did not attend. It isn't working and everything is getting blurry again, but lucky for him he can give out painfully simple answers without raising suspicions. 

The only reason he agreed to this was so he could stop sitting around in New York wondering where MacKenzie was. Right now, his eyes are telling him that MacKenzie is sitting at the top of this lecture hall holding a tablet of paper. And then she isn't. And then she is. Will says what the fake MacKenzie clearly wants him to say, and wonders how likely it is that he's going completely fucking insane right now.

* * *

Two weeks after his “inspired” Northwestern disaster, Will walks back into Atlantis World Media. His staff, apparently, does not. His assistant is not who he remembers, and there's a man he’s sure he doesn't know sitting at the desk of a woman whose name he can't remember. When he asks his executive producer about it, Don Keefer tells him that he is in fact not Will’s executive producer, ending the longest streak an EP has had with Will in his time at ACN.

“I hired you a new EP!” Charlie Skinner announces, coming out of Will’s office. 

“I have an EP right here,” Will yells back, throwing an arm out at Don. 

“He's going to ten o’clock.”

“Really?” Will turns to Don accusingly. “Did no one hear the second part of the fucking speech?! It wasn't that bad. I think you're all missing the point…”

“I _really_ _am_ going to ten but, hey! He hired you a new EP!” Don shrugs nonchalantly and walks away.

“What in the fuck is happening right now,” Will mutters to himself before giving up and following Charlie to his office. Charlie has a grin on his face that Will doesn't like.

“Hi, Will.” He hasn't heard her voice in years, and despite everything, he doesn't really want to be hearing it now. 

“No,” he says firmly, turning to Charlie.

“She's the best in the business!”

“No.”

“She had a rough time in Afghanistan and now CNN has nothing to offer her stateside.”

“I thought she was the best in the business.”

“Nothing to offer her!” Charlie tries very desperately to keep this from going so horribly wrong that it cannot be saved.

“As it turns out, it was Pakistan actually—sometimes you think you're in one, but you're actually in the other, you know… And I think it was more on account of the psychiatric evaluation than the fact that they couldn't find any news in this country,” Mac interjects. 

“That I did not know!” Charlie winces in front of Will, then turns to face Mac, all the while keeping the beaming smile on his face. “ _Please_ , continue.”

She thinks for a very long time before she finds the words. She still hasn't forgotten which network had the first coverage of the protests or who her father spoke to that night. “…I may have failed the psychiatric evaluation that my cameraman and I were forced by CNN to undergo after we came back.”

“It does make a lot more sense when you put it in context, Charlie,” Will muses. “Still not doing it.”

“You don't have a choice.”

“I have contractual rights.”

“No, you don't.”

“Well I should.”

“And yet you don't, and here we are.”

“When we met,” Mac interrupts again, looking concerned. “When we met, Charlie, I was wearing sweatpants and day drinking in a bowling alley and you just assumed that CNN couldn't find me an assignment because _there wasn’t any news?_ ” 

“I understand now that that was foolish of me.”

“You cannot expect me to do this,” Will protests. 

“The ship needs fixed, William!”

“The ship is an absolute disgrace to journalism,” MacKenzie agrees. 

“Says the woman who day drinks in bowling alleys.”

“Will, either you go to air tonight with her and her people, or you go to air tonight with no one. You two better learn to get along.”


	3. Deep Water Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News Night makes its comeback as a good news program and Will and Mac make very little progress.

“Excuse me,” a skinny kid Will’s never met before pushes the door open as he knocks. Don is standing behind him radiating anger. “Can I talk to Mac for a second?”

“I’m sorry,” Don interjects, trying to pull the kid away. “Mac, this guy’s insane, it’s fine.”

Mac raises an eyebrow. 

“An oil well exploded in the Gulf of Mexico,” the kid says before Don gets anywhere.

“The Coast Guard is searching for missing crew. We’ll talk about it at six.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“No, there’s not.” Don sighs and tugs the other guy by his shirt sleeve again. Mac looks unconvinced. Will doesn’t like Don very much right now, and he hates how much people have been keeping from him recently. 

“What’s more?” Will says, standing behind his desk. “And who are you?”

“Jim Harper. My senior producer,” Mac supplies.

“ _Senior_? Can he even drive at night?”

“What happened?” Mac ignores Will like he’s been ignoring her for the past three years. 

“I’ve got two sources. One is a guy at BP saying they don’t know how to cap the well. It’s spilling insane amounts of oil into the Gulf and it could reach Louisiana in days. The second is Halliburton. They were hired to seal the well because it was gonna be moved soon. The point is that the cement used to seal the well failed, and Halliburton knew that it would.” Jim is out of breath by the time he finishes, clutching a notebook of scribbled pages in one hand. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Mac breathes. 

“It’s a yellow alert.” Don has let go of Jim and taken to leaning in the doorway as if all of this is above him. 

Charlie has taken over the computer at Will’s desk. “Not anymore it’s not. It’s orange.”

“Where is this?” Will asks.

“Deep Water Horizon. Off the coast of Louisiana.”

“We’ve got more people on this?’

“Uh, the guy… He’s…” Jim makes a vague gesture to the back of the newsroom where Neal is sitting. 

“Neal,” Charlie says.

“And you’ve got sources?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Listen, kid,” Charlie says, “We need to know if we can trust this.”

“Trust her.” Jim looks back at MacKenzie. Will laughs bitterly. 

“I don’t think we should trust any of them,” Don adds from the doorway.

“Don, close the door,” Will says. Don lets the door slam behind him. “How high up are these guys?”

“I didn’t say they were guys.” Charlie rolls his eyes and Don scoffs. “But they’re high enough to be in on all the meetings. Enough to know what this really is.”

“You gotta give us more than that.”

“Listen, I don’t know what your problem with us is,” Jim looks to Mac, then back at Will, “but you’ve gotta trust us. The guy--Neal? Neal says this is the biggest environmental disaster in history. Forty-eight hours and everyone has this story. This is big, Will. You want to be big.”

“Who are your sources?” It’s Mac asking this time, and her tone is telling him that he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

“My college roommate has been at BP for four years. He’s a junior VP, he’s in on the meetings. My big sister works for Halliburton. She has a PhD in Mechanical Engineering, and she’s a Republican,” he says as if that’ll win Will over. 

“It’s a search and rescue!” Don shouts, exasperated. “Simple!”

Will nods slowly. “Clear the show. You start in two weeks?” he asks Mac. She nods. “Get everyone who’s not staying with _News Night_ out of here. Two weeks paid vacation, you start tonight. We need research. We need people.”

Mac was already out the door before he finished his first sentence. “Who’s going to ten and who’s my booker?” she calls into the almost empty newsroom.

“She’s good,” Jim says. He’s looking Will dead in the eye, waiting for a challenge. Will doesn’t have one. 

* * *

“Hi, Will,” Mac says over the headset someone in the control room put in her hands a moment ago.

“Do _not_ talk to me unless you have to.”

“But this is important," she complains, "We have to get a few things straight.”

“Ninety seconds to air is not a good time for me.” He gives her a look through the monitor. 

“It’s a great time for you.”

“Can people hear me?”

Mac searches the control panel for the button she’s looking for. “Well, now they can. Now where should we start? I hurt you and that wasn’t fair… And I’ve tried to make it up to you, but you haven’t spoken one word to me in three years, so I don’t know what else to try at this point.”

“Take me off speaker.” Will has his hand over the earpiece as if he’s considering just taking it out and getting this over with.

“But what you have to understand is that no matter what happened, for an hour five times a week we are on national television. For those five hours a week I’m producing this show and you’re going to do it the way I want you to. For an hour of primetime every night, I own you. Say “I understand” so we can get a soundcheck.”

“I understand,” Will mutters guiltily.

“I’m sorry what was that?”

“I understand.”

“Ten seconds to air,” the director’s voice comes over their headsets.

“Has anyone else noticed he has no script?” a kid asks to the room at large. “I mean, there’s nothing on the teleprompter.”

“Just the way I want it.” Mac smiles. 

* * *

“Will!” Mac calls, stepping out of the elevator. It’s after the show and she assumes he’s heading out for the night.

“Your hour’s up,” he says shortly.

“I can still talk to you outside of the hour,” she says. She’s matching his stride somehow, managing to keep up with him so he has no choice but to listen to her.

“I don’t have to listen.”

“I know who you talked to that night.”

“What?”

“You talked to my father. You put my name on air while he was on hold on the phone in your office—which you _knew_ I didn’t want—and afterwards you talked to him. Don put Elliot in the chair and you talked to my father. I think that’s when they first figured out Elliot was good…”

Will’s stopped dead in his tracks, not looking at her. Not looking at anything, really. She wasn’t supposed to know about that. “You…” he trails off.

“My father has never been a good liar—you know that. And I’ve seen the tape from that night. That was a good show. That was quite possibly the last time you did any good reporting.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Okay, there might have been a few other times, but I found that one particuarly memorable.”

He doesn’t know why he says what he does after that, but he can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “I told your father I would call you. I didn’t obviously, but I unblocked your number. And I tried to write to you, but I was sitting there and I realized there was nothing I could say to make anything go back to the way it was.”

He leaves MacKenzie standing in shock in the lobby of Atlantis Cable News. His car is already waiting outside. He knows there's more to be said about that night and the nights that followed. A lot more to be said about Pakistan and the scar he knows is there and about them. He still can’t say any of it. Not now. Not yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering I have very little else to do I've been writing quite a lot. I'm also on a rewatch of The West Wing, but I told myself I couldn't publish any West Wing stuff until I finished this one. So here I am trying to remember the plot of this show and how I wish it would have gone instead. I hope I'm doing it justice.  
> More to come.


	4. It's Not, But It Can Be

The first night of  _ News Night 2.0 _ leaves Mac seriously reconsidering her agreement to come here. She was just starting to get the hang of bowling. Now she’s running a show where her anchor defends Sarah Palin on live TV. How times change.

Her Manhattan apartment is still mostly boxes, and she intends to keep it that way so long as Will insists on hating her so damn much. He didn’t fire her tonight, not yet, but at this rate, she might not have a job by the end of the next show. Either way, by Monday she’ll have an answer to her ultimatum. He has to be in. One hundred percent. He has to be in even though she cheated on him, and hurt him, and accidently told everyone at ACN and then some. He has to be in because he has to be the moral center of the show—a moral center that doesn’t defend Palin on-air. 

Her phone rings while she’s contemplating all this. His name still shows up on the caller ID. She just never had the heart to get rid of the number. Tonight is the first time he’s called in three years. She answers, sitting on her sofa in the dark and drinking a beer. Drinking at night, she’s found, is more socially acceptable. 

“Will?”

“Does this count as me calling you?”

“No, but strong effort!” she says sarcastically.

“I just wanted to tell you I’ll see you Monday.”

“Good to know I still have a job… Maybe I  _ will _ start unpacking…”

“I’m in, okay? I’m in.”

“You’re still going to worry about the popularity and the ratings.”

“Yes.” There’s a pause. This is the most honest he’s been with her in forever. “Yes, but I’m still in.  _ News Night 2.0 _ or whatever your plan is.”

“We’re going to do the news.”

“We’re going to do the news right,” he agrees. 

“Good.”

“I’m sorry I made you the news like that,” he says before he has the chance to overthink it. “That night. There was nothing on the prompter and I had no idea what the hell else I could say.”

“You’re always good when there’s nothing on the prompter…” she muses. 

“You’re supposed to actually say something here.”

“I wanted to call. In the hospital, in London, when we got back stateside. I just really wanted to hear your voice.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You were mad at me, Will. I was never mad at you, I was just afraid of what you were going to say.”

“Of what I was going to say?”

“You told me to get out and never look at you again.” 

Will winces even on the other side of the phone across many city blocks. “Wait,” he tells her. He goes in search of his laptop which has to be around here somewhere, because he just had it this morning. 

“What are you looking for?” she asks, amused. She can hear him on the other end of the line tearing his apartment apart in search of something. 

“Here.” He sets it down and types in the password, looking for something from a lifetime ago. “Are you busy right now?”

“I don’t make many plans after midnight with all the friends I have in this city.”

“Good. I’m coming over.”

“Hi,” he says when she opens the door. He’s got his laptop tucked under one arm, and he’s out of breath like he just ran up the stairs to get here. He probably did, now that she thinks about it. Will’s always been rather uncontrollable and impulsive when he’s like this. Though she’s not really sure what  _ like this _ entails tonight.

“I have beer and I have a sofa,” she tells him as he brushes past her.

“That’s it?”

“Well, you see, my current job isn’t the most stable.”

Will shoots her a look as he walks into the kitchen in search of the beer she alluded to. He has to search for things, but he makes his way around the place like he lives there. She’s still standing in the living room when he sits down and opens the laptop. 

“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the cushion beside him. She does, if only, to find out what’s gotten into him tonight. “Okay. I have a lot of things to explain.”

“Go ahead, then,” she says, leaning back and looking at him. She has a sudden memory of him from exactly this angle many years ago. It was in the apartment they used to share back then. He was writing a script, she thinks. They used to sit just like this to discuss their show, and life, and whatever else. A lifetime ago.

“I listened to all the voicemails. All of them. I started the night of Islamabad, and it was… I don’t know, a couple months before Northwestern when I finally listened to the last one. I didn’t want them to end, because then I wouldn’t get to hear your voice anymore” He doesn’t look at her. It’s easier that way, when he doesn’t have any idea what she’s thinking. “And I read the emails,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. 

If her life ended right now, Mackenzie probably would not complain. She loves him, she really does, and this is what she wanted. It’s just that this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This is mortifying—to look at him sitting in her apartment and know that he’s heard every word she wanted to say to him in those years.

“Okay,” she says in a small voice. Her brain is still trying to process what the hell is going on right now.

“The point is—”

“Oh good, there’s a point.” Will gives her that look again. “Sorry.”

“ _ The point is _ I never sent you anything back.”

“I noticed.”

“Here.” He passes her the laptop, opened to his email. It’s a folder of old drafts dating back to the end of 2009. The date attached to the very first one is Islamabad, the time just after two in the morning. It takes her a minute to remember the time difference from then, and how he could have possibly written this before it even happened.

The next few emails follow in the next few days. Days he wasn’t on air as Atlantis tried to clean up the mess he’d created by reporting her name. They’re all still written sometime early in the morning and late at night. 

It’s almost a year's worth of unsent emails. She reads them silently while he drinks, staring out into nothing through the window. 

**November 2009 — 2:26 A.M.**

Mac,

I don’t expect you to forgive me either. I just needed to tell you that I never stopped loving you, and that you should’ve come home a long time ago. I’m sorry that everything led to you going there and all of this happening. 

I’m sorry I made you the news tonight. I was sitting there, and then the tape rolled and it was you, and then it was over and there was nothing on the prompter. I wasn’t thinking of what to say. I wasn’t thinking of anything else. 

I talked to your father tonight. He told me to call you. I want to—I want to hear the sound of your voice again—but I know you won’t pick up. You have every right to hate me. I hate me too. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out.

Love always,

Will

**January 2010 — 5:49 A.M.**

Mac,

I started listening to your old voicemails the other day. I unblocked your number, too. I keep thinking you might try to call again. I don’t know why. 

I don’t understand where we went wrong. Not really. I mean, there’s the obvious point of no return, but I don’t know how we got there. If I could do it over I would. If I could talk to you again I would. Or at least I’d try. I don’t know what the hell to say. We can’t go back anymore. That life is too far gone. 

I miss you, though. The show misses you. The ratings are up, but it’s never the same.I have another new producer. I bet you’ve heard already. He doesn’t like me either, but I think he might actually last. 

I haven’t heard anything about you. Your father sent me a text the other day, said you were in the States again. I hope you’re alright, wherever you are.

Love always,

Will

**March 2010 — 9:01 P.M.**

I swear to God I saw you yesterday afternoon. Right before everything went to hell. 

I agreed to do this panel at Northwestern—or maybe Charlie agreed to it for me, I don’t remember—but anyway, I got this stupid question from some college kid:  _ Why is America the greatest country in the world? _ The moderator wouldn’t let me get away with saying the Jets, so I was going to have to make something up, but while I was thinking I was looking into the audience. There was this woman holding up a piece of paper and I could have sworn that for a second she was you. I tried to brush it off, but I looked back and you were still there and you had another paper. It was like you were producing from up there. And you were telling me what to say:  _ It’s not, but it can be _ .

So I said it. And that’s when everything went to hell. You’ve probably seen it online. I can’t imagine there’s any way to avoid it. I saw it at least three times today and I wasn’t even trying. Just so you know, you’re to blame for my downfall. I still love you, though.

You were right. It’s not. But it can be.

Love always,

Will

That’s where the emails end. With the Northwestern disaster. Mac hands back the laptop silently and stands up. She’s looking around for something, though Will has no idea what. 

It’s sitting on the kitchen counter. She remembers now: she set it down there when she got up to get the beer. She opens it against the counter and flips through the pages until she finds the ones she’s searching for. She can still feel Will watching her.

“Are you going to say anything?” he asks. His voice is uncharacteristically nervous. 

Mac turns around, holding up the portfolio she carries around everywhere. He reads it, his breath catching. She flips the page. Those are the words, right there in her hands:

**IT’S NOT**

**BUT IT CAN BE.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending was, for some reason, impossible to write. I know how I wanted it and I just can't get it right. I think this is the best version of this story there will be for the time being.


End file.
